What the hell do you want from me

With a growing sense of insecurity that lurks in the back of my mind because of the natural fallout of it being instilled by over-exposure to multi-lingual and multi-dimensional facets of violins, I seem to be loosing the ability to form proper sentences as the light of your mind fades and the sun sinks, to be replaced only by this sick sense of nothingness that you know doesn't exist and yet has the ability to influence your every action, and model your reactions to suit the ever-changing myraid of things that go on around you in the universe perpetuated by weasels and other insignificant life-forms, with the inclusion of furries, who sit around on their lazy behinds and update their blogs and myspace pages, in order that other weasels may read them and steal their ideas to put on their blogs as some form of peace offering to the nothingness that is the internet, which in a way is balanced out by the fact that this sentence in itself is redundant, self-reflexive and self-indulgent to the point of meaninglessness, and is killing you slowly by its sheer "lameness" which can't even be attributed to a lame creature, like a duck, rather, a creature that actually is lame, like a beaver that stepped on a landmine and later got stepped on by George Harrison, who was in the wetlands campaigning against landmines and cruelty to beavers, as he demonstrated what not to do to at a baptism ceremony for the pope's fourth lovechild with the chupacabra, thereby setting off a chain of cosmic events culminating in the ultimate destruction of millions upon millions of neurons in your brain, provided that you have a brain, whilst you read this sentence and pondered what the word "whilst" was doing there and if the author was fat and British, thus confusing your "inner spirit" to turn on itself and try to strangle the very next person you see, in an attempt to appease the weasel or duck-beaver/platypus that you just heard of, and have absolutely no feelings for, therefore making you a real criminal in the eyes of the obviously shitty justice system that sentences murderers to community service that is completely officious and uncalled for, which basically mean the same thing, and yet are used one after the other with the sole purpose of redundancy and repetition, to piss you the hell off while you read this sentence that is redundant and repetitive to piss you the hell off while you read this sentence that is redundant and repetitive to piss you the hell off while you read this sentence that is redundant and repetitive and never seems to end even though you know that if you scroll down you just might reach the end, but don't because you're afraid of returning to your fleeting, cold, and pointless existence where you do nothing but post scraps on social networking sites, while the all encompassing nature of this sentence forces you the ask the question, do ducks have dicks? Period.

Wha? Could you repeat the question?